The Chess Game
by The Fool's Hope
Summary: In which there is a friendly match, both Holmes and Watson wax eloquent on the virtues of particular pieces, and a big fat metaphor comes in and makes itself at home. May contain fluff. If allergic, do not read.


_AN: FLUFF!! Utter fluff, born from my recently noctournal habits and a writer's block prompt on LJ. I've always wanted to put Holmes in front of a chessboard, and when I saw the opportunity I just had to take it. Thanks to my Dad, who sparked my interest in chess in the first place (and subsequently squashed it by winning every game from when I was five to present--The man's got trophies for his chess playing skills, I should have known I never stood a chacne!) and to KCS, who encouraged me to post this here :) _

**Disclaimer: These utterly fantastic characters are not, in fact, mine; they belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. **

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"Chess is quite remarkable in that it is based entirely on reasoning--it is the ultimate strategy game, and only the use of logic and a firm grasp of the opponent's mind will allow one to become victorious," remarked Sherlock Holmes one evening, as we bent over a chessboard. I was beginning to regret agreeing to the friendly match, as I was of course up against the most formidable mind in all of London, who had also made logic his lifestyle. "The game also requires the participants to focus on multiple elements at once," he continued. "One must determine the most effective strategy towards breaking the opponent's defences, ensure the safety of one's own pieces, and of course, anticipate the opponent's movements. It is the latter element which makes it so imperative to be able to put yourself in the place of the one you're working against, to fully understand him and have a clear sense of the way his mind works."

"The advantage is clearly yours then, Holmes," I said good-humoredly. "Not only do you know me well from living with me for some years, you make it your business to know what other people are thinking."

Holmes leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in the familiar position he used whenever he entertained a client. "Not so, my dear Watson, not so. For as much as I have had the chance to learn about the workings of your mind, so you have had the opportunities to learn the workings of mine. Indeed even more so, perhaps, as I have explained my trains of thought to you many times before, upon such occasions as you expressed surprise at the extent of my simple deductions."

"Hardly simple, Holmes. You have had the distinct honor, if I recall, of putting Scotland Yard to shame more times than I can possibly count."

He waved away my praise with an easy hand. "I must disagree with you on one point there, Watson. Putting Scotland Yard to shame is hardly an _honor_. It sometimes amazes me that they can find their way out of the police station in the first place, never mind forming actual conclusions from the scene of a crime. No, Watson, if I have had any honor, it comes from pitting my wits against the most devious and devilish of minds, minds that seek to cheat justice. It is there that the challenge lies."

I had often heard his offhand complaints with respect to the Yard, and had begun almost unconsciously counting them in with the daily routine that arose from living with the man. It was a particular character trait of Sherlock Holmes that he believed modesty to be as far from a virtue as vanity, and that the only way to describe the talents of any particular person or group of people was exactly. Yet when it came to Scotland Yard, he took great pleasure in labeling their methods as "imbicilic" and "absurd." While it is true that the Yard did not live up the deductive standard that he himself exuded, they were far from incompetent, and I occasionally chastised my friend for exaggerating their ineffectiveness, though it did little good.

"It is my firm opinion that London has become much too tame of late," Holmes continued, fingering his rook absent-mindedly. "While most of the city is lying secure in their beds, I lie awake at night, my mind begging for problems, problems of some merit. Instead I am bombarded with absurdly simple requests from too many parties. When am I to be offered a case of some interest?"

"Surely you aren't entirely without work," I said, moving my knight up to capture his bishop. "Just recently there was a string of robberies--"

"Oh, burglaries, burglaries, it's all just a matter of catching the thieves. Nothing but a band of men low on cash willing to rob pawn shops until their pockets jingle. No, the Yard will have them by tomorrow, the day after at the very latest." He shifted a pawn up the board, a morose expression coming over his face. "And, of course, there are those that simply expect me to solve everything. Hah! I feel like the blasted queen in a chess set--expected to run all over the place, getting things done. And if they don't have me, they're suddenly lost." He tapped the relevant piece with a forefinger. "It is not a happy analogy, certainly. I can only pray that some little problem of _interest_ happens along soon."

I gave his comparison some thought. "You know, Holmes, to you it may not sound a happy analogy, but does it not speak of your prowess as a detective? What I mean to say is, the queen is an extraordinary piece." I picked up my own queen after shifting my rook over to cover my bishop. "When the piece was introduced to the game it made the play infinitely more interesting, to my mind, because it is the inclination of every player to rely heavily on the piece with the most power. If you are the queen, Holmes, then we all rely on you--you can do things we cannot, just as the queen can, and without your guidance, as you say, the Yard would be at a loss in several of their cases. The queen is entirely unrestricted; its value to any player is greater than that of any other piece." I set my queen down firmly in the centre of its square. "Your abilities exceed that of any other piece in the great chess game of the law, Holmes."

My friend wore the indifferent expression he affected so often, but I could see his eyes twinkling, and I could not supress a grin. "Such eloquence, Watson, such extraordinary eloquence," he declared, gesturing with one hand while moving his queen up the board with the other. "And romantic as always; I can see you remain faithful to your preferred writing style no matter what the subject matter."

"Might I remind you that it was _you_ who began the comparison of yourself to the queen," I told him, raising an eyebrow as I shifted my pawn one square closer towards the edge of the board. "Perhaps some of my writing is rubbing off on you, hmmm?"

"Oh, I doubt that, Watson, I sincerely doubt that." He paused, and studied the chessboard for a long moment, before reaching out a long finger towards his pieces with a singular expression in his eyes. "But what of the King, Watson?" he said, in an almost contemplative voice. "Your little monologue placed the queen high in importance, that much is certain... but the king, Watson, the king." He tapped his own king with his finger, rocking it slightly where it stood. "You made the queen out to be unrestricted, having abilities that none of the other pieces posess, and this is of course true. But the queen is by no means free as a bird. The king is what keeps it tethered to the ground. The queen is the offense of each little army, of course, due to the range of movement available to it, but its most important duty is to see to it that the king remains safe, whatever the cost to the queen itself, for the king is infinitely more important. Without the queen there is a great loss to the player, but without the king there is no game. It is the king that defines the queen, that gives the queen its purpose, that allows the queen to do its work at all. Without the king the queen's particular abilities would be for nothing, but with the king, they are a force to be reckoned with. And that, my dear Watson, is why one must never imagine the queen to be more important than the king."

I sat listening to this peculiar speech with some surprise, for it was rare that my friend spoke at such lengths on something so seemingly trivial as a metaphor. "My goodness, Holmes, I do believe my writing really has rubbed off on you."

He gave a small smile and leaned back in his chair, the singular look in his eye replaced with a merry twinkle. "It seems I will be obliged to steer topics of converstion away from the metaphorical from now on, Watson. I simply cannot have my reputation tarnished with the idea that your writing is 'rubbing off on me'. Why, I should lose all hopes of finding a client if they thought I spouted out as much romantic drivel as your pen."

"Might I remind you that that romantic drivel is most of the reason you _have_ clients--"

We were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Mrs. Hudson. "I'm sorry to bother you, gentlemen, but there's a young lady downstairs that wishes to speak with you--shall I send her up?"

Holmes turned to me with raised eyebrows. "It seems my wish has been granted! Send her up, Mrs. Hudson, send her up."

"Holmes," I said, as the door shut behind her, "What exactly did you mean by that whole thing about the king?"

"Oh, it was nothing, Watson," he said jovially, "Just a thought, is all. No, I daresay I can give you something better to contemplate, have no fear." He stood and stretched, then without even looking down pushed his queen all the way across the board.

"Just remember, Watson--as talented as the queen may be, it is nothing without the king," he called enigmatically over his shoulder, leaving me grimacing at his perfect checkmate as he flung the door wide to greet our guest.


End file.
